[Hello, dear viewers! Kelly Barkson here, and as all of you know, for the past four days twenty-nine contestants have been battling it out to see who will be the champion of Dante’s Abyss while all of us at home wait with baited breath. Well, wait no more— it looks like we have our winner! We had a chance for an exclusive interview before this year’s champion was released to the masses.
Entering the side of the helicopter right as it touched down, I was able to see our contestant leaning back in an uncomfortable-looking seat, resting in a puddle of his own blood. Despite being covered in plasma burns and one arm short, however, Contestant #X appeared relatively alert— he even conversed with the Syntech employees attending to him.]
ARTPOOL: (taking a sip from a bottle) The... booze in this place... is terrible.
ATTENDANT: I apologize, sir, but that is bottled water.
[Our contestant stopped for a long moment to contemplate this, seeming displeased. His wounds continued to audibly drip onto the helicopter’s floorboard, soaking through his bandages. It was then that I made my move.]
KELLY BARKSON: Excuse me, Mister…. Pool? Morgan?
[Contestant #X’s head turned in a lazy swivel to face me, his facial features drooping with tiredness. Blue eyes squinted into my own from within a rugged, scarred visage, expression rife with suspicion. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally seemed to relax, eyes flitting to the cameraman standing over my shoulder before refocusing on my face.]
ARTPOOL: (tipping hat with his one good arm) ...Madam.
KB: Hi there! My name is Kelly Barkson, journalist for PEP-C TV. I hate to be a bother, but I’ve come to interview you.
AP: You have? Oh, goodie.
[Not the most encouraging response. But this intrepid reporter was determined to get the scoop on what, exactly, it was like to emerge victorious from the fabled Dante’s Abyss. I pressed on.]
KB: Anyway. What was it like, that first day or two on the island?
AP: Boring, I s’pose. I got jumped a few times and— was insulted by a really short alien feller after getting kicked in the nads.
KB: You’ll forgive me, but I don’t recall that happening to… oh, right. You’re referring to…
both of your experiences.
AP: Yeah. Strange, ain’t it? Gives ya one bitch of a headache. (turning his head to a nearby employee engrossed in the process of checking his vitals) Hey, feller. You know when I’m gettin’ split?
ATTENDANT: I’m afraid not, sir. It’ll have to wait until after your talk with the press.
AP: But I’m talking to the press right now, ain’t I?
ATTENDANT: Oh, no sir. There’s more after this one.
AP: (groaning, the fused man turns back to face me) Alright, let’s get this over with.
KB: Alrighty, I won’t waste any more of your time then. Just, tell me this: what was it like to kill those on the island with you?
AP: … nothin’ special. Ran into some weird folks tryin’ to off me, but they were dealt with. Ain’t much else to say about it.
KB: You’re positive? And what about your… ally?
AP: Freezy? (chuckles) I think that should be obvious, considerin’ I’m here and he ain’t.
KB: No, no. The other one.
AP: …
KB: You know who I’m talking about. The robot with the hot sauce packets.
AP: I think what you meant to say was “Kopaka, Toa of Ice.”
KB: Sure, whatever you say. You would’ve had to kill him, you know that, right?
AP: (shifting uncomfortably, frowning) ‘course I know that. I would’ve had to kill every damn person on that island.
KB: Yes, but would you have killed him? Would you have killed Kopaka?
AP: We would’ve figured something out.
KB: Really? You would have figured something out?
AP: Yeah, we would’ve.
KB: Well, considering that only
one winner is possible in the Abyss…
AP: (gestures to self) I think we both know that ain’t quite true. Not anymore.
KB: Hmm. Maybe not. But regardless, surely you would have had to
choose—
[I am interrupted by a tinny rapping noise echoing from outside. A Syntech employee makes his appearance at the helicopter’s side door, clipboard in hand. He leans inside, waving to myself and my cameraman.]
ATTENDANT: Time’s up, Miss Barkson.
[I turn back to my interviewee. Contestant #X seems to be disinterested once again, all of his attention focused on a… journal(?) resting in his lap.]
KB: Alright, I’m on my way out. And my sincerest congratulations, contestant.
[And with that, this intrepid reporter takes her leave.]
* * *
As soon as Artpool set foot off the helicopter, he made a bee-line for the nearest article of furniture suitable for sitting on, ignoring the flashing cameras and insistent reporters dogging his every step. Unfortunately for Kevin, this turned out to be a rather nice couch belonging to Mr. Karl— made of pristine white leather, a few swanky cup holders built into the arms.
Kevin had been told to just give the guy whatever he wanted for a while, considering that this fusion appeared to be especially volatile. It was because of this that Kevin approached with extreme caution… and a bottle of whiskey held before him like a peace offering.
“Uh, howdy,” said Kevin by way of greeting, then immediately wanted to punch himself in the face for it. “I mean, uhhhh. Shit, was that insensitive? To like, your culture?”
The scarred, bloodied, and bruised man cast a glance in his direction, then froze at the sight of the whiskey. He snatched it out of Kevin’s hands, blood-stained teeth showing in a nearly feral grin.
“Naw. It’s all good, partner,” Artpool drawled, sinking into the plush leather at his back. He took a hearty pull from the bottle, his one good arm holding it up to his mouth. The remaining stump of his other limb continued to slough blood down his side, staining the fusion’s spandex costume an even darker shade of red.
The ginger-haired Syntech employee chanced a glance down to see if the couch appeared to be surviving its encounter with the gestalt’s gore-stained back. No such luck. Sighing, Kevin looked over his shoulder at the horde of reporters and photojournalists waiting behind him, the bulk of the crowd kept at bay by a few security personnel.
“Mr. Artpool, sir,” Kevin began, shuffling a bit closer so his voice could be heard over the crowd. “The people gathered back there want to hear from you. About your stay on the island, and what it feels like to have won. Do you think you’re in a… good mental place where you can, er, do that? Like right now?”
“Sure thing, kid.”
“Okay,” said Kevin. “Okay. I’m gonna call them over now, okay? Just… don’t freak out or anything. I know you’ve been through a lot and you might actually be on a few sedatives, but I
really don’t want any incidents.”
”Got it,” Artpool shot him a two-fingered salute that looked suspiciously like a gun.
”No trouble here.”
Kevin eyed him. “Alright, uh-huh. Good.”
With a wave of Kevin’s hand, a select group of reporters (all Pepsi-sponsored) was allowed to move closer, the rest forced to strain their ears and cameras from afar. They remained a good three feet away from the hunched over, whiskey-swilling fusion, not daring to breathe a word.
Growing a bit frustrated, Kevin decided to select someone at random to begin asking questions. He ended up pointing at a young man with pointy elf ears and weirdly cyberpunk-y gear, probably a newshound from Cevanti.
“Er, right,” said the young man, whose name tag read ‘Patrick.’ “Mr. Artpool, sir. What was it like fighting Gilgamesh, the king of heroes? Especially after he was possessed by the Malefactor!”
“Gilgamesh…” mused Artpool, seeming as if he was trying very hard to recall something.
“Ah, right... I showed that feller a thing or two about shootin’ before all this started. Seems he still needs to learn a thing or two, eh?”
Patrick nodded, scribbling something down on a glowing datapad. “Oh, absolutely. And the Malefactor?”
The gestalt’s nose wrinkled.
“Disgustin’ thing.”
Suddenly, the reporter standing beside Patrick just couldn’t seem to hold it in anymore. He shifted forward suddenly, so fast that Kevin didn’t have time to deflect or steer the interview back on course.
“But what about your ex-partner’s death?” the older man blurted, dressed in the traditional flowing robes of some Kariman high house. “The icy fellow. How did his death make you feel?”
“I ain’t too sure if’n you want to be askin’ that question right now, partner,” said Artpool, an odd glint in his eye. His grip had gone white-knuckled on the neck of the bottle.
”I ain’t exactly myself, as you can see.”
“W-well, uh, we’ll get back to that later,” Kevin interjected a bit shakily, waving his arms around as if to attract the attention of a large predator. It seemed to work, too, for Artpool’s sour gaze focused on him. “Let’s move on, shall we? Does anyone have less, ehrm,
touchy questions prepared for our victor?”
